


Losing Battles

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Psychological Horror, Torture, Victim Blaming, abusive relationship tactics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what victory looks like.</p><p><i>"Tyelpe. It's been such a long time; I </i>am<i> glad to see you again."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Battles

You stand, looking out over the city. Behind you, Ost-in-Edhil's walls stand broken open, forced by siege engine and strength of arms; the view opens out over trampled fields, smoke rising up into pale evening skies.

 _The workshops and smithies, there, in the east_ , you think, _and the great houses on the hill; leading down towards the covered markets by the banks of the river -_

You can still hear, faintly, screams; and the shouts of your own troops. The warehouses south of the river have caught, in a crackle of collapsing timbers and heat that reaches you half a mile off; the pavements are choked with rubble and scattered with the city's dead. It was street-to-street fighting, in the end, a last desperate resistance that you are still scouring out.

A street or two away, another house collapses, in a reverberation of falling masonry that you feel as a shudder in the ground beneath you, and a backwash of gritty dust joining the smoke in the air. You smile, mirthlessly. Dear Tyelperinquar must have been so busy in the last days of the siege: the city's architecture is rotted from the inside out, a trap waiting to close upon its invaders. Ost-in-Edhil is no longer a fortress anyone can hold.

He must have _understood_ that there was no path by which he could actually win, in the end.

You turn, and signal over one of your aides; the man approaches cautiously, dropping to one knee and bowing his head as he comes near, and you wave him up impatiently.

"How goes the search?" you ask.

The aide - _Alakŝ_ _andu_ , you think - swallows, muscles working in his throat. "We are still seeking as you instructed, Lord, but - the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain are badly destabilised, and so it must proceed slowly - "

"Yes," you say. "And Celebrimbor?"

The man looks relieved. "Confined in one of the intact guardposts near the gate, Lord; we have him bound and under guard."

"Yes. Alright," you say. "I'm going to have to speak to him. Let the commanders know where I am."

***

Tyelperinquar's head is bowed, waves of dark hair falling loose about his face; but it jerks up as you come in, his eyes meeting yours. A complicated expression passes across his face, then fades, leaving a bitter look behind; he turns his head away.

"Hello to you, too," you say. "Tyelpe. It's been such a long time; I _am_ glad to see you again."

You walk over, pacing around him as he fails to respond, then coming to a halt as you stand in front of the chair the guards have bound him to. It isn't a large room, but the stone walls are thick; a brazier in the corner casts a wavering light over both of you, shadows moving across Tyelperinquar's face.

Someone has peeled him out of his armour already, leaving him in a padded silk tunic, the star of House Fëanor embroidered in gold at the collar. The guards have bound him, sensibly, at chest and waist, wrist and ankle, elbow and knee; you can see his fingers twitch, clenching down on the chair-arm, as you watch.

"Nothing to say?" you ask, pleasantly. "I thought we might talk a little. It's been - over a century, now. Certainly _I_ missed _you_."

No response. Tyelperinquar continues to look fixedly away from you, eyes narrowed; you see him bite his lip at your words.

"Oh, Tyelpe," you say, and sigh. You drop to kneel in front of him, putting you closer to his eye level, and place your hand over his, feeling the tension in muscle and bone beneath your palm.

"Tyelpe, I _do_ understand," you say. "Of course you thought you had to fight me. I know what sort of position I put you in. But it's _over_ , now. You can admit it at last." You smile, trying to meet his gaze, and tighten the clasp of your hand. "You _lost_ , Tyelpe. You can give in. It's alright."

You see Tyelperinquar bite his lip again, and stroke your thumb reassuringly down over the joint at his wrist. A feeling almost like tenderness comes over you; and the warm satisfaction of having Tyelpe finally in your possession.

"All you have to do," you say - your voice as gentle as you can manage - "is tell me where the Rings are. I'll take care of everything from there. It will all work out, you'll see."

His head turns, and -

"I should _never_ ," says Tyelperinquar, grey eyes furious, "have trusted a single word you ever said to me, _Sauron_." The old insult - still has force, in his mouth. "Did you really - if there is _one thing_ I can keep from you, then at least I can still deny you _that_ much. You didn't make the Rings, and you can't have them now."

You let go of his hand and stand up.

You don't have _time_ for this.

"All right," you say, studying him, disappointed. "The other way, then."

***

"Yes, I want it _now_ , what did you think I meant?" you tell one of the guards. "This shouldn't take too long."

You pace restlessly while you wait, watching the flames still blazing in the warehouse district, an almost comforting wash of heat in the cooling air.

You've _won_ here, you remind yourself. It wasn't _you_ who made this necessary.

The Rings aren't the difference between winning and losing; not really. But they make the difference between a swift battle and a drawn-out war, between an easy victory and the long, bitter resistance you hope to avoid.

It's - satisfying, to put the skills you once learned in another's cause to your own uses; to think of the world you can make once this is over, set in order, harmonised, perfected. Like cutting and polishing a gemstone, you think; like faceting a jewel.

Absently, you run your thumb over the warm golden metal circling your own finger, feeling the comforting hum of power echoing back through you, your own abilities endlessly reflected and refracted back upon themselves, focused and multiplied. It was such a _clever_ idea: you're still pleased with yourself for managing it.

You're sure Tyelperinquar would agree that this is worth it, in the end.

You'll _make_ him see it. Even if he persists in this - _ingratitude_.

***

"You _will_ tell me," you say, holding the flat of the blade against Tyelperinquar's cheekbone, watching him go still beneath the threat. "Eventually. There's nothing left for you to gain by delaying, Tyelpe; you don't have to do this to yourself."

You watch your captive's chest rise and fall, breathing a little shallow; he glares at you, all anger and brittle defiance.

"I will _never_ tell you _anything_ ," he says, and -

It's almost touching, in a way; how _brave_ he keeps trying to be. If only it weren't so _inconvenient_.

"As you like, then," you say lightly, and move the knife down to start cutting away his tunic, careful and delicate, even as he flinches away. The knife-blade itself is steel and mithril, sharpened to near-perfect fineness; it cuts through silk almost without resistance, and you pause to tug away shreds of cloth.

You make the first cut just above Tyelperinquar's clavicle, following the line of the bone under the skin; the skin parts, blood welling out. Your captive clenches his teeth a moment, but - you can see the moment of _relief_ that flickers across his face. The knife is so sharp that it takes a moment for the pain to come at all, and it's not a particularly sensitive area; _if this is all there is, it will be bearable_ , you imagine his thought.

You have done this before, many times, for many reasons.

Thousands of years ago, and you first set out to cause pain in a captive under your hands: for interest, for curiosity, to satisfy Melkor's endless need to see the many ways Ilúvatar's children can be destroyed.

You have - better cause, this time.

"Everyone gives in eventually, Tyelperinquar," you say flatly. "There's no shame in it."

" _Liar_ -" he starts, and -

You _grate_ the knife-edge against his clavicle, hard enough to cut into the bone, and watch your captive make a choked gasping noise and try to jerk away as the pain resonates through him, fear flaring up in his eyes.

" _Everyone_ ," you say. And you make the next cut.

***

At length, Tyelpe bites through his own lip: you can see the effort it takes him, trying so hard _not to help you_.

"All you have to do is _let me know_ ," you say, calmly, and Tyelperinquar makes a faint sound of pain under his breath, eyes fluttering closed.

You've made something of a mess of him. Exposed muscle gleams wetly in his chest, where you stripped the layers of skin away with surgical precision; the blood makes the injury look worse than it really is.

It's - frustrating. You don't know why he's so _determined_ to resist.

You reach out to wipe the blood away from his mouth, watching him try to twist away from your fingers.

"I don't _enjoy_ doing this," you say.

Tyelpe licks his mouth, and spits blood. "Are you," he says, voice a little slurred, "are you _seriously_ -"

" _Listen to me_ , Tyelperinquar," you say, annoyance sharpening your voice. " _You're_ the one who wanted to end up here. I offered you _every opportunity_ \- I gave you _everything_ , you used what _I_ taught you to make the Rings, I don't know why you _insist_ on keeping them from me now.

"I can only assume you think you're making some sort of _point_ here," you add, "when all you're doing is making yourself _pathetic_."

He - bares his teeth at you, in something that could almost be a grin if it weren't all anger.

" _Pathetic_ ," he says, "is the way _you_ had to steal _my_ work. Why don't _you_ give me _your_ Ring, since _you_ needed to copy _mine_ to make it - "

You backhand him, hard, across the face, feeling the impact of his cheekbone against the first two knuckles of your hand. The impact snaps his head back; you can see where the bruises will form.

"Oh, let's _talk_ about theft, Tyelperinquar," you say. "Let's _talk_ about everything you _took_ from me - everything you had to _turn against me_ and _misuse_ \- "

When he tries to speak, you hit him again. You are becoming _tired_ of his _refusal to listen to you_.

"All you have to do," you say very clearly, "is tell me where the Rings are. Do you think," you say, "that I don't know what I'm talking about, when I say that you'll tell me eventually? You _will_ , Tyelperinquar. Surely you can see how _I_ would know that."

You take hold of his chin, tilting his face upwards in your hand, against his resistance; there are tear-tracks on his face, but he still glares at you stubbornly, blinking through sticky dark lashes.

"You're not just hurting yourself," you say. "You're making _everything_ worse for _everyone_. I gave you every opportunity to surrender, but when you refused, I cracked your city open like an eggshell. I'm _going to win_ , Tyelperinquar. There's no-one left on Middle-earth who can stand against me. The only question is how long it takes.

"And I'm a _good_ _ruler_ ," you say, "you _know_ that. Didn't we agree on so much? The only difference your _selfishness_ makes, Tyelpe, is how long this war drags out and how much I have to sacrifice in the meantime. If you just _tell me_ what you did with the Rings, all of this can be very easy. Hardly anyone has to get hurt at all."

You hold his gaze, _willing_ him to just -

"Go look for the Rings in Hell, _Sauron_ ,” your captive says, focusing to form the words clearly. “You must remember the way."

Your fingers tighten on the knife, knuckles whitening.

***

You have fire and steel. The rest is - extraneous, in the end.

You have, in the past, invented devices for work of this nature: subtle tools or elaborate machinery, sharpened and polished to a gleam or formed from twisted black iron, designed more to intimidate than for any actual purpose.

It was - as much a matter of personal amusement, a way to keep your own interest, as anything else. There is no particular way to flay nerve from sinew that is more effective than any other, no special means of torment and humiliation that will speed a captive's breaking.

Melkor did so enjoy your _ingenuity_ , of course. It grew to bore you, in the end, as with so much else about Melkor: the repetitive petty labour of it, the reduction of your prisoners to screaming bloody lumps of meat and gristle, the spirit crushed out of them, flensed down to nothing more than a whining, servile desire to please you.

Nothing for it but to use them and discard them, after that. At least your wolves got something out of it.

You have no intention of going so far, today. You need so _little_ from Tyelperinquar.

But all knowledge is worth having.

You _lean_ against his mind. You can't force his thoughts to open to you: that much, he can keep from you, for as long as his will endures. But you can make him _afraid_.

"Only a few words, Tyelperinquar," you say, touching heated metal to soft flesh, in a brief crackle of sound and the smell of burning meat.

"It's entirely your decision, Tyelperinquar," you say, sliding the knife under his skin to flay it away from him in delicate strips, red blood welling up from underneath.

"Why can't you just _tell me_ , Tyelpe?" you say in frustration, listening to him scream.

***

He cries, of course. After a while, the screams trail off into soft continuous sobbing; you listen to his breath hitch as you twist the knife in your fingers.

Measured periods of respite can, also, be effective.

You sigh, and put the knife to one side, for the moment. You cross the room to where a jug of water stands; fill a ceramic cup.

"Here," you say, returning, and holding it to his lips. "It's alright, Tyelpe; hush, now. Drink."

You stroke your other hand through his hair - damp with sweat, your own hand leaving streaks of blood behind - and let it come to rest at the back of his head, supporting him as he sips.

"Shhh," you say again as he finishes. You set the cup aside and lean in towards him, stroking your hand gently through his hair again, tracing the fragile bone of his skull beneath your fingers, down towards the articulated column of his spine.

You - stay there, for a while, listening to his breathing gradually ease.

"I _will_ take care of you, you know," you say eventually. "I'll take care of everyone. Middle-earth united in peace and prosperity, made as lovely as Aman - wasn't that what you always wanted? To make this world beautiful again? We can still do it, Tyelpe; I still want your help."

His gaze is downcast; you watch his eyes close, for a moment, long lashes sweeping down.

"I don't - " he starts, and then comes to a halt; you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. "You're - not -"

"Oh, Tyelpe, there's nothing here that can't be fixed," you say gently. "Don't you remember how we made the Rings together? It can all be well between us again."

You stroke his hair away from his face, tucking loose strands carefully back behind his ear.

"Weren't we friends?" you say. "I _do_ care about you, Tyelpe. Didn't we have centuries together? Do you think you didn't get to know me, in all that time?"

You pause, the words almost sticking in your throat, but -

"Do you think - am I not doing the right thing, Tyelpe?" you say, very quietly. "You can tell me that, you know. I'll listen. All you have to do is help me a little, now; but I want you by my side in this, if I can. There's so much we could still accomplish, with each other."

"I - but _you_ \- I _don't_ -"

You watch him crying again, almost silently now, tears dripping down his cheeks as he bites his lip again, a line of blood tracing its way from his mouth.

"Tyelpe?" you say, and - you are as gentle as you know how to be, now, your voice soft and sweet, all threats put aside. "It's such a small thing, and then everything can be alright again. I promise."

"Seven -"

He pauses, gasping out a sob. You stand very still.

"Seven - under the flagstone, by the hearth at the - the small workshop, in the north corridor -"

"Yes," you say. "I know the place you mean, Tyelpe; it's alright."

You move to cup his face in your hands, smudging away with your thumbs the tears still tracing their way there, warm with affection and relief.

"And the Three?" you say. "Just one more thing, sweetness. Oh, love, don’t cry. I'll take care of it."

"I - they - "

"Yes?" you say, encouragingly. You lean down, and - press a brief kiss against his temple, feeling achingly tender towards him.

"S - s - sent them -"

"You sent them away?" you say. "Who was it, dear one? Gil-galad? _Galadriel_? I always knew she was trying to turn you against me -"

"I - _no_ -"

" _Was_ it Galadriel?" you say. "Just a word, sweetness, and I'll take them back. She should _never have dared_ -"

"No - _stop_ _it_ -"

" _Tell me_ ," you say. "Stop _trying to protect them_ \- whoever it is, if it weren't for them I wouldn't have _needed to do this_ -"

"You didn't - why can't you just _stop it_ , Annatar, I d- didn't mean to -"

"Why can't you just _say it_?" you say. "What about this is so _difficult_ , Tyelpe, why am _I_ the one you _can't trust_ -"

"Why - h- how can you even _ask_ \- oh, gods, I should never have told you _anything_ , of course I'm not going to tell you -"

"Just _tell me who you sent them to_ ," you say. "That's _all I'm asking of you_ \- just this _one little thing_ -"

" _No_ ," he says. "Please, Annatar, you said you'd _listen_ to me - this _isn't right_ , you need to _stop_ -"

"I said I'd listen if you _helped me_ ," you say. "I won't listen if you - if you keep treating me like an _enemy_ , if you keep acting like _I'm_ in the _wrong_ for trying to _do the right thing_ \- I offered you _everything_ , Tyelpe, do you think it doesn't _hurt_ when you _throw it all back in my face_ -"

" _How dare you try to act like this isn't all your own -"_

You slap him, and feel brief satisfaction as you see him flinch.

***

You go to find one of your commanders. Perhaps, you think, what Tyelperinquar needs is a chance to _think_ about his behaviour - as if he - as if _you_ -

You decide not to think about it for a while.

It really is _astonishing_ , you think, how _little_ other people seem able to accomplish without your constant oversight.

"There's _still_ resistance in the eastern quarter?" you say. "We must outnumber them tenfold at this point. What do you have the orcs doing, _asking them nicely_?"

Your general - Tawaŝi, a tall, solid mortal woman whose sharp teeth suggest some admixture of orc in her own bloodline - winces at your tone.

"We're making progress, Lord, but - in the streets here - we haven't really been able to bring our numbers to bear -"

"Well, maybe you should _look for a way to do that_ , then," you suggest. "Break down the buildings. Burn them out. Apply a _little_ initiative, Tawaŝi, _how hard can it be_?"

Her gaze tracks your hands as you gesture, wide-eyed in horrified fascination; you follow her glance and notice the blood still wet upon them, black in the firelight, your Ring smudged with darkness over the gold.

" _Tawaŝ_ _i_ ," you say sharply.

She pales, eyes snapping back to your face. "Yes, Lord, as - as soon as possible - "

"And find Alakŝandu," you add. "Tell him to take up the floor in the workshop at the north-eastern corner of the House of the Mírdain. Do you think you can manage _that_ much?"

"Yes, Lord -"

"This isn't _difficult_ ," you say. "If only people would _do what I tell them_ we could manage everything _very easily_. I'm at a loss to understand why people insist on being so _deliberately obstructive_ when I'm _trying to help_. No, not you, Tawaŝi. Go on. Try to get _something_ done."

***

You walk back in.

"I think," you say, "that perhaps you don't think I'll _really_ do anything to hurt you. That perhaps you think there are _limits_ on what I'm willing to do."

"No -"

"Do you think this is a _game_ to me?" you say. "Do you think this isn't _important_? I didn't _want_ to do this, Tyelpe, but you're _not leaving me any choice_."

"I didn't - you -"

"I don't think," you say, "that you're really _afraid_ of what could happen, yet. Well," you say, "you _will be_."

***

You unbind his arm enough to turn his hand over, and bind it again, palm up.

He tries to fight you, of course. But you've always been stronger than him, and it's not difficult, when he's already exhausted, when you only need to press your fingers into the burn-marks at the thin skin inside his elbow to make him flinch and whimper.

You use your knife; hot iron, for cautery; and delicate jewellers' pliers.

You start vivisecting his hand.

Skin first, of course: very carefully, to avoid the fine tracery of blood vessels that shows so close beneath, mapping their way from the wrist down into the palm. You only have to stop occasionally to burn out the upswell of blood from a nicked vein.

Then tendon and muscle, tracing your way in from the fingertips, unwinding as you go. It surprises you, in a way, how little there is to the fingers, how even your captive's hands reduce themselves in the end to this slender construction of nerve and sinew and bone.

"Are the Three worth more to you than all your future works, Tyelperinquar?" you say. "How well _do_ you think you can manage with only one hand?"

You reach in with the pliers to pull out the middle phalange of his index finger; it comes loose in a single hard tug, and you hold it up for a moment to study before casting it aside, where a bloody mass of scraps is beginning to accumulate.

"You're not your uncle, you know," you add. "Although I have to say that _he_ was fairly pathetic too, as I remember him. You should be grateful, actually. I'm _much_ nicer than Melkor was."

Your captive has gone past screaming, now, into a kind of low hoarse whining that you can't quite manage to ignore. It grates against you. You _want to not be hearing it_.

"You can end this any time you like," you say, with a vicious jab of your knife at the exposed muscle fibres in his palm. " _Any_ time. Really. For - come _on_ , Tyelperinquar, I can't believe you don't want this to be _over_. All you have to do is _tell me_ and I can _stop_."

***

You keep going.

Blood slicks your hands; makes the knife almost slip in your grasp, as you cut and cut again.

"Are you ready to _listen_ yet, Tyelpe?" you say. "You _know_ what you need to do. It shouldn't be this _difficult_."

"Nnn -"

You watch his lashes flutter, head tipping to one side, and - you're not going to let him _faint_. It can't take _that_ much longer, you think, wearily.

"Pay _attention_ , Tyelpe," you say, and hit him full across the face, your hand leaving streaks of red against the paling skin of his cheekbone.

His head tips further, and -

You look at the blood on your hands, and your knife, and the floor.

You were being _careful_ , you think evenly. It shouldn't be enough to -

" _Tyelpe_ ," you say sharply. "Don't you -"

You hit him again, hard, and then reach out to take his pulse.

" _Tyelperinquar, don't you dare_ -"

***

You - stand there, afterwards, trying to work out what to do next.

You have absolutely no skill at healing. You - didn't _intend_ -

"You're so _selfish_ ," you say, almost shaking with anger. "Did you - of course, it's so _difficult_ to just _let me have anything_ , I can't believe you had to go _this far_ just to - just to -"

You're not - it's not something you can do, to pretend you're talking to more than the silence. You, of all people, understand the difference between the spirit and its transient cage of flesh; so fragile, in the end, and so easily dismantled.

" _Tyelpe_ -" you start to say, hearing your voice come out thin and strange -

You throw the knife aside, hearing it clatter against the wall, and put your hands over your face for a moment.

" _Fine_ , then," you say clearly. "I'm _going to win_ , Tyelperinquar, it _doesn't matter what you do_. You and all your allies are _going to lose_. Do you think - I hope you didn't think you were _helping anything_ , I'm not going to be _nice_ or _forgiving_ now, this is _my victory_ and I'm going to _make them see that_.

"Can you see this?" you add. "I _hope so_ , Tyelpe, because _everything that happens after this_ is going to be _your fault_. You can't - you can't -"

You pause for a moment, breath coming in hard gasps.

"You _can't take this back_ ," you say. "Do you _understand that_? You _can't take this back_ , not - not even if - even if you wanted to -"

***

You walk out into the open air, and every soldier in your line of sight simultaneously drops to their knees.

"Where's Tawaŝi?" you say. "I want this _finished_. Take what we can from the House of the Mírdain, pull our troops out and fire the rest. I want this city _crushed_."

"Lord," one guard says, huddling, "do you -"

"And dispose of the corpse," you add, your hands clenching into fists. "Do - something with it, I don't really care."

You pause, your own rage shimmering in the air around you like heat-haze.

"Or - no," you say, your eyes narrowing, the words sharp and vicious in your mouth. "I have an idea. _This_ is what we'll do -"

 

 


End file.
